


The Sun to Rise

by andavs



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Imaginary Friends that aren't so Imaginary, M/M, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 18:11:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15869025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andavs/pseuds/andavs
Summary: Stiles has an imaginary friend. He's kind of a dick.





	The Sun to Rise

It started about the time Stiles moved into his new apartment. There was a weird creaking that sounded a hell of a lot like someone sneaking around to kill him in the middle of the night, and as he lay there in bed, psyching himself up to go get the bat he hadn't unpacked yet, Derek's voice said loud and clear, right next to him,

“It’s your neighbor pacing next door. No one’s in your apartment.”

Stiles yelped, threw himself onto the floor, far away from the man suddenly lying in his bed next to him, and then met his downstairs neighbor a few minutes later when he ran up to make sure everything was okay.

First night in town and Stiles got himself an imaginary friend and a bruised knee.

*

He’d dismissed it all as a stress dream, maybe some nervous energy, because he didn’t see Derek for a few weeks after that. 

In that time, he’d started his new job, was immediately thrown into five different programming projects, and then pretty much stopped sleeping as he scrambled to catch up with it all. The team he’d been told he was joining was actually just Gary, who’d been in the industry for thirty years and hadn’t learned any new languages since JavaScript. His responsibilities were six times what was discussed in the interviews, the promised provided snacks was the same old bowl of trail mix that no one ever touched because the M&Ms were faded, and the building had some kind of weird glitch that made it lose power twice a week no matter what, so Stiles had picked up the obsessive habit of saving everything every five minutes whether he actually did anything new or not. 

In a word, he was dying.

“Are you okay?” someone asked as he was staring blankly at pre-packaged sandwiches, and he was so tired that Stiles didn’t immediately recognize him as Derek standing next to him at the grocery store.

“Just tired,” he responded after a long processing pause, and turned back to look between turkey and tuna. They both looked equally beige, but at least the turkey had lettuce. Something green was probably good.

“You look like you’re about to pass out,” the guy continued, then when Stiles reached for the tuna, he said, “Don’t get that one. It smells off.”

Stiles put the sandwich back on the shelf, and grabbed the turkey. Then he grabbed a bottle of iced coffee and shuffled towards the register to pay.

“Are you okay to drive?” the guy asked, following a step behind for some reason.

“I walked,” Stiles told him to get him to go away. He had a basket full of nice looking produce and fresh squeezed juices that Stiles didn’t even know they sold at this store, so he could fuck off with his judgment and his tan. He was probably going home early to cook himself a great dinner and watch a documentary before going to bed early, so he could wake up early and hit the gym before work.

Whereas Stiles really had walked because the office was down the street, and it was only four in the afternoon, and he still had hours of work left to do. He would probably take a nap on the floor before trying to drive home, if he even made it home that night. The walk to the dinky, shitty grocery store was the only sunlight Stiles got these days.

The guy still looked concerned, but when Stiles glanced back after paying, he was gone, so whatever. Problem solved.

Stiles walked back to the office to find Gary watching instructional videos on C++, trying desperately to figure out their problem. Stiles offered him half his sandwich, and Gary did one better and ordered pizza with breadsticks and a big salad. Stiles did not make it home that night, but at least he had vegetables.

*

Normally he would’ve caught on to the pattern a lot quicker. His dad was a cop, he’d always liked mysteries and solving puzzles, he was a pattern kind of guy. He was all about patterns. But he was also incredibly tired, all the time, so he was giving himself a pass on not realizing that the same guy was popping up left and right, and even in his own apartment.

When it finally clicked, he was passively surprised to find that he wasn’t all that worried about it.

“Are you stalking me?” he asked, lying in bed one Saturday morning and staring at the ceiling before he had to get to the office. The sun was barely up.

Lying beside him, Derek snorted, and said, “No, I’m not stalking you.” 

“Are you lying?” Stiles asked, because there was a stranger lying in his bed.

“No.”

Stiles turned his head to look at him, and Derek did the same. “Are you sure? Because this feels like stalking.”

Derek raised an eyebrow that clearly thought Stiles was an idiot. “I’m not stalking you.”

For the record, Stiles didn’t believe him, but he didn’t want to start his morning on a fight.

“Okay.” He sat up and stretched and his back cracked because his mattress was a piece of shit. “I’m going to work, so lock up before you leave.”

Derek snorted softly, but he was gone by the time Stiles got dressed.

*

The next time he saw Derek, he’d actually gotten a weekend off to sleep so he was a little sharper. But he’d also made the mistake of absently grabbing a handful of the old office trail mix and threw up in the trash can by his desk. He was somewhat more well rested but still irritable because his body had violently flushed out everything inside of it.

“Question,” he said into the quiet morning, and Derek raised his eyebrows but didn’t look away from his book. He was sitting up in his spot on the bed, wearing nice sweats and a nice sweater, his hair looked great. Stiles was curled up, sweaty, and the kitchen trash can was next to the bed, just in case. He was a little bitter. “Why are you here?” 

Derek moved his eyebrows in some way. That was a stupid answer.

“Can you at least get me some water?”

“No.”

“Then go away,” Stiles sighed, and carefully turned over to go back to sleep. 

*

“What do you do?” Derek asked, and Stiles turned away from the computer screen to blink at him blearily. He was sitting in the empty office chair at the next station over (unused as long as Stiles had been there), wearing an expensive looking blazer, and he was holding some manly cocktail in a rocks glass.

Stiles had a stain on his shirt and a pile of cold McDonald's fries getting salt on his mousepad. 

“I’m a programmer,” he answered, and gestured to the screen. Somewhere in there, there was a very stupid mistake keeping him from going home, and he was determined to find it.

Derek leaned over to look closer. Stiles had an excellent imagination because he could even smell the expensive and manly cologne he was wearing. It was nice. Somewhere deep down in his subconscious, Stiles had pretty good taste, cold McDonald's fries aside.

“Can’t you do this at home?” Derek asked. His lip was curled a bit, like he was a little disgusted with all of Stiles’ life. He took a sip of his drink and looked like the biggest asshole.

“Boss doesn’t like work to leave the premises.” Which was stupid, because it was nothing revolutionary that anyone would care about stealing or buying or even trying to copy. 

Stiles’ college classmates were down in Silicon Valley making millions a day, traveling the world, growing great beards, and drinking hipster drinks like Derek, and he was doing _this._ He was pretty sure his eyesight was getting worse too. He tried not to think about it or use social media too much.

“You need a new job,” Derek decided like that was new, and Stiles responded shittily,

“No shit.”

“Why aren’t you looking for one?”

“Because I’m trying to do this one, so maybe fuck off with your scotch and your face and let me finish.” 

They glared flatly at each other for a few more seconds before Derek threw back, “It’s bourbon,” and then vanished.

So Stiles was going crazy and hallucinating some snobby hipster. That was awesome.

*

It was probably some kind of wish fulfillment, was the explanation Stiles finally settled on, early one morning sitting at Starbucks. Derek was sitting across from him, reading an honest to god newspaper and sipping a fancy, tiny coffee that didn't have enough room for his pinky on the fancy, tiny handle.

Derek always seemed perfectly content with his nice jeans and shiny boots. He styled his hair every day, he wore fitted blazers, he drank manly cocktails, and he always had the perfect amount of stubble. 

Stiles was unhappy with his current life. He was a mess in cheap, stained clothes with no time for a social life, no job satisfaction, and perpetually greasy hair from frustratedly tugging at it after eating unhealthy food at his desk. He only got stubble after a three day programming bender, and he just looked homeless in the end.

It probably wasn’t healthy to see a physical manifestation of his quarter life crisis and inferiority complex sitting across from him at a Starbucks.

“This isn’t your usual setup,” Derek said, glancing around with a little less judgment than usual. “I don’t remember the last time you weren’t in the office or asleep.” Today he was wearing a crisp button up, which was different from his usual casual henleys but not any less attractive.

“Office lost power.” Stiles had pulled into the parking lot, only for Gary to frantically tell him to leave again. This time it was looking like a more extensive repair and the boss was on an angry rampage about it. The fear in his eyes said _escape while you still can,_ so Stiles honored his sacrifice and sped off before anyone else saw his jeep.

“You need a new job,” Derek told him again, and sipped at his comically small coffee.

“I know,” Stiles repeated his instinctive response. 

“So look for one.” Derek dipped a fashionable shoe towards Stiles’ ratty-in-comparison computer bag. “You’re finally not working and you're just staring into space at a Starbucks.”

Stiles glared. “I haven't stared into space in four months, could you give me a minute here?”

Derek glared right back. “Staring into space isn't going to get you a better job.”

“God, could you be any more obnoxious with your fucking latte?” Stiles snapped, but he got his laptop out anyway because Derek was right. His job was awful and he hated it and he really needed a new one. He was always tired and shaky and he got light headed way too easily from not eating well. It was actually becoming a health risk.

“It’s an espresso,” Derek corrected with attitude.

“It’s gonna be a foot up your ass if you don’t shut up.” It was another instinctive reply that didn’t really make sense, and Derek just raised his eyebrow in response. Stiles groaned and rubbed his eyes, his face, his hair. When he stopped and opened his eyes again, Derek was gone.

He was the douchiest part of Stiles’ subconscious; the part that flipped through GQ and thought, _I could totally pull off that hat,_ but he was also weirdly motivating, so Stiles pulled up an assortment of job sites and started looking for a potential future.

*

“Fuck,” Derek said from right behind him, and Stiles turned around, mid-shampoo. 

Derek’s eyes politely jumped up to the ceiling of the bathroom while Stiles openly stared a little lower and gave his subconscious a high five.

*

_“I’m worried about you, kiddo.”_

It wasn’t the first time his dad had said it, but this time in particular, Stiles was very glad they hadn’t done a video chat. His hair was a mess and he was very aware of the dark circles under his eyes. Working so much while also searching for a new job during the little free time he had was hitting him hard, because that free time had previously been entirely devoted to sleep.

Even Derek’s eyebrows looked concerned these days, but that was fair because if Stiles died of sleep deprivation, Derek would also cease to exist. His subconscious had a definite vested interested in keeping him alive, even if his everyday consciousness just wanted to get the hell out of his current job, no matter what.

The power outages had picked up steam, and even obsessively saving everything and backing it up, they kept losing work. The boss was always angry, Gary had started spontaneously getting nose bleeds from the stress, and Stiles was pretty sure his eye had developed a tic.

“I’m fine,” he lied brightly. “Now what about the murder case? Did you guys find that drifter?”

His dad sighed, but accepted the obvious and abrupt topic change. _“Yeah, we cleared him. He was already in Nevada by the time she died. This would be a hell of a lot easier if we could just find some kind of motive.”_

“None of her friends knew anything?” He picked at a crusty spot on his pants as his dad sighed.

_“They don’t even know why she was in the preserve. She hated the woods, she only exercised at the gym...”_

“Then she must’ve gone to meet someone,” Stiles decided, mulling over everything else he’d been told about the case. Young woman found strangled in the preserve; her car was parked in the lot, nothing out of the ordinary, she wasn’t dressed for a hike or a jog, no one knew what she was doing out there. “What kind of apps did she have on her phone? Did you check them all for messages?”

_“Yeah, none of them were odd. Just the usual stuff with her friends and coworkers. She didn’t even have a dating app.”_

“You checked the games too?” The silence on the other end was telling. “Some games have messaging. Try checking all of them, even the apps on her account that she deleted from her phone.”

 _“We have got to get some younger people working here,”_ his dad muttered, and it sounded like he was writing that down.

They chatted for a little longer, about cases and life. Stiles wished him luck on the rest of his night shift, his dad told him to go to sleep, and they hung up.

It was after three in the morning when Stiles plugged in his phone and flopped back on his bed to finally pass out, missing his dad more than he could stand, and taking a weird amount of comfort from Derek reading silently next to him with bedhead.

*

“Derek, I think I’m dying,” Stiles announced at Starbucks, very late one night. He was halfway through a cover letter for a job close enough that he wouldn’t have to break his lease. It was the fourth of the night, and he’d had to close his left eye to keep the twitching from distracting him. 

Derek looked up from his book with raised eyebrows. “More than usual?”

He was still being a smug shithead because he’d told Stiles to go home and go to sleep about twelve times already, but that wouldn’t get him a new job. Derek should remember that, he was the one who kept bringing it up.

“Well the usual isn’t doing all that great anyway,” Stiles said, glaring with his one open eye. “I mean, imaginary friends aren’t exactly a normal way to cope with stress at twenty-four.” 

Derek was quiet for a moment, frowning at him. “I'm not imaginary, Stiles.”

“Fine, then I'm seeing ghosts, which is equally as concerning.”

“I'm not dead either.”

“Exactly what a ghost who doesn't know they're dead would say.”

Derek sighed. “No, I mean right now I'm at a cafe in New York City, reading a book and eating a muffin.”

Something on the table flickered out if the corner of his eye, and when Stiles looked down, there was a plate with a half-eaten muffin half in his laptop. It wasn't quite solid, he could still see the table through it, but he could also tell that it was blueberry, and that Derek ripped off the muffin top and set it aside to eat last.

He looked back up at Derek sitting across from him, and for a second, he wasn't sitting in Starbucks at 4am. He was sitting outside, at a sidewalk table. People were walking past in office attire, and he was completely surrounded by the sounds of a bustling city coming alive for the morning. Derek sat across from him, a copy of _War and Peace_ cracked open, and he was loosely holding a small, fancy cup of his fancy coffee even though it was just sitting on the table, like he was already preparing to take his next sip.

It was solid, real; it wasn't the same mirage like he usually saw Derek, never fully interacting with his surroundings. It was tangible. Stiles could smell fresh bread from the café’s open window, the better coffee Derek was drinking, that kind of dirty smell of large cities that somehow worked for them.

And then Stiles was back in his empty Starbucks, sitting alone with his laptop in the back corner. It was dark outside, the streets were quiet except for the very occasional car, and John Legend was playing just a hair too loud for that late at night. One of the two employees working was wiping down the table beside him and he could smell the hint of bleach on the rag.

“What the fuck,” he said aloud, and she glanced over at him. He smiled awkwardly and looked back down at his laptop, so she moved to the next empty table.

“What the fuck was that?” Stiles asked Derek, who was back in his seat. He looked dickishly amused.

“You’ve never seen my side of things before?” he asked, and took a mocking sip of his superior coffee in its fancy cup. Stiles’ lukewarm dark roast was in a basic, boring mug with the Starbucks logo stamped on the side. His own muffin was in a paper bag.

“I thought you were a stress hallucination! I didn't know you had a side to see!” He’d have tried to see it a lot more if he’d known how much better things were over there.

Derek quirked an eyebrow. “Do you usually hallucinate when you’re stressed? You should probably talk to someone about that.”

Stiles glared. “I don’t need my stress hallucination giving me mental health advice.”

Derek closed his book and set it on the table. His table. In New York. The edge of it was sticking through Stiles’ laptop screen and he could see all the different pages with folded corners where Derek had marked his place before. It looked like he’d read it a lot.

“Do you really not know what’s been happening with us?” he asked, looking concerned.

“I didn’t even know you existed until now.”

“It’s—” Derek glanced away like he was listening to someone and nodded. He was starting to flicker. “I have to get to work. We can talk about it later.”

And then he was gone.

Least helpful stress hallucination ever.

*

Gary took the news that Stiles was quitting surprisingly well. 

“You need to save yourself,” he said seriously, holding a bloody tissue to his nose. He grabbed a fresh one from the box Stiles was holding for him and swapped it out. “You’re too good for this place. I should’ve warned you before you took the job.”

That would’ve been nice, but he couldn’t be too mad when the guy was regularly fighting off ulcers. The power flickered two minutes ago and nothing was lost this time, but Gary's nose had started pouring. Stiles had blood on his pants.

He didn’t want to abandon the poor guy like this, but his hallucinations had jumped to a whole new level. He’d actually thought he was in New York for a second there, really believed what Derek was saying, so either the job was killing him, or he actually had a brain tumor. Which would be unfortunate because the job had garbage health insurance on top of everything else.

“Just tell him after I leave for the night so he doesn’t yell at me about it,” Gary asked, and at Stiles’ expression, he just nodded. “Yeah, I hear it.”

*

That night, for the first time in months, Stiles was in bed by 8pm. Teeth brushed, in pajamas, actually ate a proper meal, laptop closed and charging in the other room.

And he couldn’t fall asleep.

He was free from work, he didn’t have to spend hours poring over their clunky, bad programs, on old, glaring monitors. He’d (hopefully) never have to sleep on an office floor ever again. He’d thrown out his last pair of pants with Gary’s nose blood on them. He’d never have to talk to his boss— _former_ boss, because Gary offered to be his reference (and vice versa). 

He could sleep in tomorrow. He could lie around in his boxers and eat all day. He could put on his nice(ish) pair of pants, go to a bar, and drink a bourbon like Derek.

He was _free._

And yet he couldn’t fucking sleep.

He was kind of going crazy for a bit there, so was his eye tic going to go away now? Would he stop hallucinating a dickish hipster? Would he never see Derek again?

That was kind of a sad thought, when he thought about it. He was just a part of Stiles’ subconscious, but he’d grown kind of attached to the guy and his dumb, tiny coffees. He was kind of fun to talk to.

Or more like Stiles was fun to talk to? 

How did his subconscious seem to have a totally different personality than him? Could stress induce a split personality?

He blinked, and suddenly his ceiling wasn’t his ceiling anymore.

“You’re here,” a familiar voice said, and Stiles turned to see Derek, constantly reading, sitting next to him on his side of the bed. Only it wasn’t Stiles’ bed anymore.

“What the fuck.” He sat up quickly, looking around. The sheets were a different color, the headboard looked way more expensive than his, everything was very modern and coordinated, and— “ _Oooh, god,_ ” Stiles moaned. He was hallucinating himself an entirely different room. This was not good.

Derek set down his book and sat forward into Stiles’ wildly moving view. “Stiles? Are you okay?”

“Um...” Stiles waffled on exactly how to react to everything. “I just hallucinated my hallucination an entire hallucination apartment, so I’m going to go with no?” 

He was at least aware of the hallucination, so that had to be one positive. He wasn’t totally lost in delusion. Yet. Could be soon, but not yet. His right hand wouldn’t stop shaking.

Derek frowned. “Did something happen?”

“Yeah. I quit my job.” His gaze kept wandering towards the window, where he could see the lights of New York City with surprising clarity for someone who'd never really been there before.

That made Derek look relieved. It should, he was the one pushing for it all along, the bastard.

“That's great,” he said, voice soft and encouraging. Like he thought Stiles might snap any second now. “How'd Gary take it?”

“He got a nose bleed.”

“He usually does.”

“Yeah, he's a mess,” Stiles sighed, and took a deep breath. If he didn't look out the window, he felt better about things. “I mean, I'm also a mess, but at least I'm only twenty-four.”

He studied Derek's face a little closer. It was late night in “New York" and his hair was unstyled and soft, his stubble was a little longer than last time, and he was wearing sweats that looked really comfy. Stiles wanted to feel them.

“Though I'm currently sitting in a shockingly detailed hallucination, so I can't say I have the high ground here.”

“Stiles,” Derek reached out like he wanted to touch his arm, but he stopped. Could they touch? Would Stiles’ brain trick him into feeling it? “This is real. It’s a lot to explain, but this is really happening.”

“I had a feeling you might say that.” His subconscious was really predictable. “So I’m just going to go ahead and continue clinging to reality—” he gestured away from Derek where his figurative reality resided “—and not listen to you about this thing happening here.”

That was supposed to be the end of the conversation, and he started to get up to signal that, but this time Derek didn’t stop when he reached out. He couldn’t touch, his hand passed right through Stiles’ bicep, but it still made him pause.

“Please listen to me,” Derek pleaded, voice unusually raw and desperate. “We need you here, but I can’t leave to find you. Not right now.” 

That wasn’t typical hallucination talk and his intensity made Stiles stop and listen.

“Your dad is in Beacon Hills, right? Where that girl was murdered?” he continued, and Stiles nodded shakily. Nothing to be weird about, he already knew all of this. “Okay, go there, and find Alan Deaton. He can explain everything. But I promise,” he paused, green eyes darting between Stiles’, “I _promise_ you that I'm real.”

Stiles finally forced himself to blink and Derek was gone. He was back in his bedroom, the room was silent, his neighbor was pacing, and he was alone.

*

His dad was thrilled when he mentioned coming back for a visit—not because of Derek, just to be clear. He wasn't taking off on a trip at the suggestion of a hallucination. But Derek was part of his subconscious, even if he denied it, and he had yet to really steer Stiles wrong. And seeing his dad and getting some rest would be good either way. No downsides.

And maybe he'd look up this Alan Deaton while he was there. See what he was up to, if he even existed.

So he packed up the stuff he wanted into the back of the jeep, left the rest of his meager belongings in the apartment, and left with no intention of coming back. He wasn’t going to break his lease just yet, he wanted to be sure first, but if it came down it, he wouldn’t care if his shitty bed was sold off by his landlord. The TV was crap and he never had time to watch it anyway, he’d only ever bought like two books in the months he’d lived there, and everything in his fridge fit into one garbage bag that he chucked in the dumpster on his way out.

It wasn’t until the trunk of the jeep closed on his life with no difficulty whatsoever that he realized what a pitiful existence he’d been living there. The only things he cared about were half his clothes, his laptop, and pictures of his parents and Scott.

He pushed that depressing realization right back into the corner of his mind where it came from and got on the road as fast as he could. Beacon Hills was only a few hours away, but he wanted to get there as quickly as possible. He wanted to see his dad. He wanted to go home.

About halfway there, Derek blinked into existence. Stiles saw him out of the corner of his eye, casting a curious look around the jeep’s interior from the passenger seat, and resisted the urge to look.

“Going somewhere?” he asked, and Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Home. Which you know. Because you’re me.”

“I’m not you.”

Stiles sighed heavily, and hit his blinker a little too hard to change lanes and pass the slowest Subaru in the entire world.

“Could you just stop? For like five minutes?” he demanded, voice a little high. “Because I’m gonna have a freaking breakdown on the side of the freeway and it’s not going to be pretty.”

“Well I’m not exactly enjoying this either, Stiles,” Derek snapped back. “I can’t control when it happens and I’m kind of on my way to a really important meeting right now. I specifically took the subway so I’d have more time to prepare, and instead I’m here, in this shitty car that’s so loud I can’t even hear myself think.”

Stiles made an unattractive face at the road. “Oh my _god,_ you are so annoying! Is this going to be the rest of my life? Are you the only company I’m going to have once I finally lose my mind? Because I might as well just roll my car into the ditch right now.” 

Derek took a deep, very angry breath. “I can’t believe this is what I’m stuck with.”

“Yeah, same to you, pal,” Stiles snapped, and Derek was gone a second later.

*

“Oh, kiddo,” his dad sighed as he pulled him in for a hug, and that really drove home the complete and total hell of the last...however many months it’d been. That was the moment he decided he was never going back to that apartment, standing in his dad’s arms in the front hall of his childhood home, trying not to cry.

*

According to his dad, Alan Deaton was the local vet, which just made Derek’s advice all the more confusing. If his subconscious was going to send him off on some stupid, crazy, wild goose chase, the least it could do is try to make it make sense. Maybe helpfully give him the number of a really good therapist.

But no. A vet.

Derek was such a douche.

Still, the guy existed, and Stiles figured he might as well see how this all played out, so he stopped by after he took a quick shower. And of all the possible outcomes he came up with on the drive over, seeing Scott behind the front counter was not one of them.

“Dude! What are you doing here?” Scott was already coming around for a hug, even as he asked, and Stiles gave it, though he was very confused. Last he heard, Scott was off at UC Davis.

“Um, what are _you_ doing here?” He patted Scott’s back a few extra times, just to make sure he felt solid. But Scott just slapped him right back like that was a thing they did now. 

“This is my internship!” he said excitedly. “I’m in vet school! You didn’t know?”

“I’ve been a little busy,” Stiles said, blinking hard, kind of in total shock. How long had he been at that job? Was he in some kind of time paradox the entire time? Was Gary even real?

“Yeah, for real.” Scott punched him in the shoulder lightly. “You totally disappeared for months. I had to keep asking your dad if you were still alive, you dick.” Then he seemed to actually see Stiles’ overall gaunt and exhausted state and he frowned. “Are you okay?”

“We’ll find out,” Stiles said a little hysterically as a man walked out from the back.

“You must be Stiles,” he greeted with a smile. “Derek said you might be stopping by. Come on back.” He gestured for Stiles to follow, but Scott grabbed his arm to stop him, eyes wide. 

“Wait, _you’re_ the emissary?”

Stiles frowned. “The what?”

Scott frowned right back at him.

They stared at each other in total confusion until the man who must’ve been Alan Deaton cleared his throat pointedly. “How about we discuss this in back.”

*

“So werewolves,” Stiles said into the silence of the night, just to try it out. He took a sip of his beer and beside him, Scott did the same.

“Yep,” he said a few seconds later after he swallowed.

“You're a werewolf.”

“Yep.”

Stiles moved his beer to his left hand, wiped the condensation from his right hand onto his pants, and then punched his best friend very hard in the shoulder.

“You didn't think to tell me this?!” he yelled, and it was a good thing they were up in the hills overlooking the city, totally alone, because otherwise they really would've drawn attention.

“You haven’t answered your phone in like a year!” Scott protested, and then added, “Plus that’s the kind of thing you say in person, and you were never here.”

“That’s—fair,” Stiles finished lamely. Telling your best friend you’re a werewolf was right up there with breakups; doing it over the phone was a real dick move.

“And to be fair again,” Scott continued, “you’re an emissary and you didn’t say anything about that either.”

Stiles was starting his indignant protest before he even finished talking. “Oh come on! I thought I was having a mental breakdown. I’m not going to tell you that over the phone either!”

Breakups, werewolves, breakdowns.

“But you’re Derek Hale’s emissary, dude!” Scott exclaimed, continuing to avoid the heavier implications of this entire experience that made Stiles want to sob into his dad’s shoulder. He would probably do that later and Scott was letting him keep his dignity about it. “As far as packs go, you hit the jackpot.”

Stiles took a sip of his beer. There was a dumb pun in there somewhere. Packpot? Packjot. Jackpack.

“I mean, what is that even like?” Scott mused, into the silence. “What is _he_ even like?”

Yeah, apparently Derek was some kind of werewolf royalty, big enough for Scott in California, werewolf of like six months to know about. Like he was some famous socialite alpha who everyone wanted to know everything about. That kind of explained his attitude. And the damn shoes. 

Stiles snorted. “He’s honestly kind of a dick.”

“What kind of a dick?” Scott asked with a serious frown. “Do I need to kick his ass?”

“Nah, not like that. He just…” Now that he was out of it, all of the little annoying things that added up were hard to describe. “He drinks these tiny coffees, man.”

Scott was still frowning, but now more out of confusion than righteous fury. “Like...espressos?”

Yeah, he wasn’t getting it.

“Forget it. He was just everywhere. All the time. Like, even in the—” Stiles froze as that sleep deprived memory suddenly slammed into the forefront of his mind. His face flushed with embarrassment, and he could hear Scott’s voice asking if he was okay, but he was not okay. Because an actual real person, actually living in New York, actual werewolf royalty with perfect stubble and a very nice package, had seen Stiles in the shower. Stood two feet away from him and tried to be respectful, and Stiles had just _openly stared._

He didn’t know whether to chug his beer or fling himself down the mountain to die. Maybe send Derek an apology card and some flowers and then commit ritual suicide.

Maybe there was a proper werewolf protocol for that kind of situation in the big, old book Deaton had given him. He’d only flipped through briefly, but from what he could see, there was a chapter on everything. Important births, unimportant births, deaths, new alphas, potlucks, which fork to use, how to properly make a bed—there had to be a chapter on ogling a very attractive and important alpha.

“Stiles?” Scott’s voice floated back into his awareness, and he tore his eyes from the horizon to stare at his best friend in horror. “Are you okay in there, buddy?”

“I saw his dick.”

Scott blinked.

*

Deaton’s book proclaimed the alpha and emissary bond to be sacred, mystical, magical, spiritual—a lot of that kind of wishy washy crap that Stiles had never put any stock into. There were all kinds of very specific rituals both parties were supposed to perform to find each other, scripts to follow, gifts to exchange; the process of an alpha and emissary bonding was supposed to be euphoric, bring a sense of completion, and often love.

But in the absence of these things, the universe had a way of forcefully cramming them together whether they liked it or not, which was the route it took with Stiles and Derek. 

So, fuck you, universe.

From what he could understand of the book, both parties were usually already aware of the roles and were expecting it. They would be keeping an eye out for signs and actively working towards each other in life until they finally came together. 

Except Stiles hadn’t known about any of this werewolf business, and in his own stupid contrary way, and been actively fighting against every sign. Like the schools in New York he’d been accepted to and turned down. The internship offers, the job that he didn’t take because he didn’t want to be so far from his dad, the hellish two day, ultra delayed layover at LaGuardia that one time he left town for spring break...

So the universe eventually threw up its hands and smashed their minds together, the book said. When their minds were in like states, a connection formed. 

Stiles was lying awake in bed, late at night in California, and on the other side of the country in New York, Derek was lying in bed after waking up, and their minds bridged. 

Stiles was sitting in his Starbucks having six coffees, Derek was at his café with a cappuccino, and then they were having a conversation.

Stiles was driving back to Beacon Hills, Derek was on the subway, both travelling.

Stiles was at work, frustrated with his job and just trying to finish, and Derek was...at a bar, drinking an Old Fashioned. 

So maybe his theory needed a little work. He needed some help with the whole thing, because honestly he had no idea what the fuck he was doing, but Deaton was being frustratingly vague because, _the pack will teach you their ways._

Stiles scoffed into the quiet of his childhood bedroom and shoved the book onto the floor. So what, he was supposed to just pick up and fly to New York? With no job, no connections, only his savings, and trust that Derek Hale, alpha extraordinaire would be waiting for him? 

Yeah, no. Not a chance.

“Did Deaton explain?” Derek asked, and suddenly Stiles was very uncomfortable with the fact that the guy was just sitting in his bedroom, chilling on his bed next to him. This wasn’t his subconscious, this was a real person, and Stiles had seen his junk.

“Yep,” he squeaked, and kept his eyes fixed on the door instead of Derek.

“So?”

“So what?”

“Will you be my emissary?” Derek asked after a short pause, and the lack of douchey bravado in his voice made Stiles finally look over. He was back in his sweats with his soft hair, and there was a book in his lap. _Crime and Punishment._

“Dude, I don’t know how,” Stiles confessed. All he had was a stupid book that was annoyingly vague because it assumed the reader already knew about the supernatural. It left out a lot of that foundational information.

“We can figure it out together,” Derek said without missing a beat, and Stiles had to scoff.

“Are you serious? Deaton said emissaries are for protection and guidance and—” _love_ , the book had said. “Don’t you want someone who can actually give you that?”

Derek frowned like he genuinely hadn’t just sat and watched Stiles totally and completely fail at life and basic survival for over eight months. Like he didn’t still have dark circles and a couple visible ribs from forgetting to eat and a bit of an eye tic.

“Seriously, Derek, I’m a fucking mess. You’re—” He gestured to all of Derek in his soft and attractive glory. “You drink cappuccinos.”

Derek’s frown turned a little mocking. “What is it with you and the cappuccinos?”

“They’re dumb and tiny!” And just for good measure, “And I hate _War and Peace.”_

“Okay?”

“I noticed you’ve read it a lot,” Stiles explained, because his parting shot hadn’t really landed like he thought it would. “I skimmed it in college and hated every second. Obviously it’s just not meant to be.”

Derek took a second to visibly reorganize his thoughts. “Stiles, I hated _War and Peace,”_ he started, which was a little surprising so Stiles loosened his defensively crossed arms a little. Just a little. “It was my sister’s book. She loved it, so I tried to read it, and I barely made it a quarter of the way through.” He shifted so they were properly facing each other.

“And I don’t think you’re a mess.” It looked like it was physically painful for him to admit it, but he kept going. “All that time, I saw someone who spent every day, morning until night and sometimes next morning, working to solve every problem he found. Someone who didn’t quit until he physically and mentally couldn’t take it any longer. Someone who even though he was breaking, still helped his dad solve his case without seeing a shred of evidence himself.”

Stiles blinked. His dad hadn’t mentioned how that case ended, and he’d honestly completely forgotten about it in all the new supernatural drama, but Derek explained a little hesitantly: “I looked it up to find out where you were from. They found her conversation with a guy on some farming game app. He asked her to meet him out there and killed her when she rejected him.”

He stopped to swallow and take a breath. “You did that. You kept trying, and that’s what I need.” He reached out and brushed his fingers against Stiles’ wrist, but he couldn’t feel it. “I need _you,_ Stiles. I need my emissary.”

This time when he looked up, Stiles could see some of the wear. He could see the shadows under his eyes, where his stubble was a little messily overgrow, his hair wasn’t perfectly cut like it had always seemed.

“What’s going on over there?” Stiles finally asked, keeping his voice quiet like someone might overhear, even though his dad was on an overnight shift.

“Some of the larger packs are closing in,” Derek began, barely more than a whisper. “They think I’m weak. They’re testing me. Trying to drive my pack out of the city.”

“Because you don’t have an emissary.” 

Derek didn’t deny it. “I don’t want to force you if you really don’t want it,” he said instead, “but I don’t see the mess that you do.”

And Stiles didn’t want it. 

He didn’t want to jump in just yet. He’d only just quit his hellish job two days before and he still wasn’t caught up on sleep. He could feel his eye twitching and his every instinct was screaming that it was too much, way too much, he wasn’t ready and probably never would be. He couldn’t protect anyone, he couldn’t even guide himself, what could he offer a _werewolf pack?_

But this was Derek. 

Derek was the first one to tell him to get a new job, nudged that computer bag and made Stiles start looking. He was the one who reminded him to eat and checked up on him, sat with him while he was vomiting into a trash can, during his late nights at work, kept him company all those long days of applying to jobs at Starbucks, and even proofread a couple cover letters. 

Derek hadn’t steered him wrong yet. Never pushed him to do anything he couldn’t do with a little effort. 

“Will you be there? When I land?” he finally asked, and the tension dropped out of Derek’s body on a relieved sigh. 

He nodded quickly, fighting back a smile that Stiles really wanted to see for real, in person.

“I’ll be there.”

And he was, standing next to luggage carousel #6 when Stiles finally pushed through the crowds, in his nice jeans and a soft sweater. He’d already found his bags by scent—what the fuck was that—and when he reached out a hand for Stiles to take, his touch was like a summer warmth spreading through his veins after a frigid winter. 

But that was just Derek, once Stiles got to know him and some of the douchier outer layers fell away. He put on a cold, impeccable, fashionable front with other packs rather than show the cracks that came with not having an emissary. He was a social wreck who drank bourbon on the rocks to get through interpack meetings without letting his anxiety show, but it still came out as being gruff and short tempered. He drank espressos because he needed the caffeine but hated the taste, and liked to down it all at once to get it over with. He only wore sweats in his apartment to be comfy, and if given the chance, would stay in bed until noon and read.

He was Derek Hale. He was Stiles’ alpha, Stiles was his emissary, and the packs of New York City knew they were untouchable. 

**Author's Note:**

> And obviously Scott joins the pack.
> 
> Also Danny is totally a Hale ally and manages to schmooze with some contacts back in California to get Gary a much better job with far less stress. His health improves drastically, his family moves to a much nicer house, and his new employers foot the bill for the programming classes he takes with glee.
> 
> [tumblr](http://andavs.tumblr.com/)


End file.
